Let's Play Murder
by EarlOfSandwich
Summary: Murder, like many things in Sherlock's life, is a game. However, to play this game, you need some elements to constitute murder.
1. Motive

Did I say murder?

* * *

**Motive**

* * *

Addiction has shown its ugly face in many ways throughout Sherlock's life. It would be safe for anyone to say he had an addictive personality and never would Sherlock deny this. As a child, he obsessed with small things. Observing and creating patterns, walls and walls of theories and understandings of the foot traffic patterns outside his bedroom window was his first addiction. Succeeding and exceeding expectations in school and competing against his brother was another. In high school, feeling was another addiction that almost killed him. The rush of alcohol was his first taste of poison, fed to him by his brother's friends in an attempt to find laughs out of the strange child's behavior. The feeling of the liquid taking over his body was irreplaceable for the kid who found it hard to feel what and how normal people felt.

Sherlock learned at a young age the bitter reality of chemical addiction. Previously, he was addicted to the natural high of obsession but the chemical takeover almost drove him to an early grave. He was truly stupid for that chase and Mycroft made sure to remind him of it whenever the opportunity of addiction rose again.

As cigarettes become less and less socially acceptable, and as Dr Watson reminded him of the dangers of every drag, new addictions were in high demand. This time an addiction that both John and Mycroft would not jump on him for was needed. Cases were not dependable, at least not legitimate case now that John went viral. Cases about cheating boyfriends or lying friends did nothing to stimulate Sherlock the way cocaine shifted his world or alcohol drifted his body.

When John dropped a small brown bag in front of him, Sherlock looked at him curiously. His first assumption, based on the sound it made as it fell and its contents was small plastic hotel liquors. Sherlock never went into the details of his addictive personality but surely Mycroft's big mouth probably mentioned something to John. The war doctor couldn't be that stupid, could he?

"What is this?" Sherlock asked quickly, refusing to touch the package presented to him. He turned slightly in his seat to see if the answer was on John's silent face. When John stared at him, his face unsure of how to answer the question, Sherlock followed with, "I'm not touching it."

"Don't be an idiot Sherlock," John said after a moment of silence. "Just open the bag."

"I'm not touching it," Sherlock repeated, silently scoffing at the idea of John calling him an idiot.

With a sigh, John quickly snatched the bag and dumped the contents in front of Sherlock. Several small boxes of varying colors but all the same sizes fell out. His eyes connected with John's again as he tried to explain. "They're ecigarettes."

"Why would you give me fake cigarettes?"

The same silent look of disbelief was on John's face. He made the motions to talk but snapped his mouth shut to reconsider. "Why?" he asked both of them. "Because you can't keep smoking those things. You're too smart for that, you know they're bad and I'm tired of reminding you."

Sherlock looked at the boxes laid in front of him a little more closely this time. "And you honestly think I have not thought about them before?"

"No," John said, "no, I figured you thought about them before. Now I'm going to make you use them, at least for a week. That's final."

"No," Sherlock said, sitting back, settled on the topic.

"Sher - you don't have any options with this, you're doing this for a week."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. I told you you have no say in this."

"Not doing it," he said with a small smile, pushing his seat back and walking away from John.

These kinds of gestures from John were not new to Sherlock. John, being the closed off man he was, expressed concern in odd ways - even for Sherlock's understanding of human behavior. Changing the bread to whole wheat or the vegetables to an organic variety was the way John communicated. That and expletives.

"Yes, you're doing it. You can't say no without trying it."

"And how do you plan to force me?" Sherlock asked from the fridge. John stared into the kitchen, mostly in disbelief of the situation unfolding in front of him.

"I choose not to reveal that information," John said, looking at the bag in his hands.

"Well, then I choose not to use those damned fake cigarettes." Sherlock returned to his seat with a water in hand. "Now, please remove these things."

John, out of frustration, picked one up and threw it at Sherlock's chest. "Do it yourself, you cunt," he said on his way out. John was smiling to himself, most likely thinking rude things about Sherlock.

Sherlock watched him until he could no longer see the man walk down the stairs and returned his attention to the packages in front of him. The door closed with an audible slam that shook the apartment. Quickly, Sherlock rose from his seat, rushed to his bedroom and pulled the pack of cigarettes from his bedside drawer. Every cigarette but one was snapped. A quick sniff of the last cigarette indicated it was dipped in some chemical. Knowing John's twisted mind, probably something that would light his bowels.

Sherlock smiled and threw the pack onto his bed and reached under the frame and grabbed another pack. They all shared the same familiar scent as the surviving stick in the last pack. That pack joined its brother on the bed.

Reaching into an old coat pocket in the back of his closet, Sherlock found another tampered pack of perfectly ruined cigarettes to join the collection on his bed.

With a sense of urgency, Sherlock's mind shot to his underwear drawer and to the pack that resided there. "I swear," he mumbled to himself as he rummaged through that drawer to find another fallen pack.

In frustration, Sherlock marched over to John's room and did a quick glance on what comforts he could ruin for John. The military man enjoyed a simple room that served the purpose it was paid for. A bed, his clothes … nothing else. Frustrated, Sherlock turned around and sat back in front of John's gift, planning the murder of John Watson once and for all.


	2. Method

It's an afterthought.

* * *

**Method**

* * *

Lipstick, again.

Sherlock was positive she was finished with this childlike crush. There have been several other relationships to distract her, possibly even cue her into positive qualities she could seek in other potential partners. Yet, here they are, a new shade of cheap lipstick and possibly a new lab coat. She redid her pony tail, too.

"Black, two sugars," she said as she placed the coffee down. He didn't even request a beverage as she entered and exited the room numerous times while he researched.

Mycroft reminded him that he was on surveillance and researching deadly poisons that pair well with scotch, particularly Aberfeldy, was a bad idea on his home network. So, with a few nice words and a step closer than usual, Molly let him use her work station in the lab to research a decent poison. Molly was smart enough to not ask questions.

Molly was not smart enough to leave him alone and every few moments he would look up from the computer and realize she was talking. She was smiling as she talked, playing with the ends of her pony tail. Sherlock realized she had a new necklace on and would absently move her hands to touch the chain. She must have a new sexual partner, someone who invested in jewelry. Sherlock looked back down at the computer until he could drown her out once more.

"Sherlock," she said lowly, drawing his attention from his important task. "You've moved on from the woman, how did you do that?"

The mental punch in the face shook Sherlock and he found himself blinking at Molly. Molly shown her regret by telling him to forget it and apologizing. When Molly made the move to escape, grabbing his cup and offering him more - did he really finish it? - Sherlock stopped her.

"I don't understand what my experience has to do with anything," he said. The concept of him discussing this with Molly, a woman he placed in her own box in her own compartment in his mind, far removed from physical attraction and the idea of romance, tore his mind apart like a barreling train.

"You _knew _her," Molly said, possibly indicating physical relations due to his ability to identify Irene Adler. "And I know you were sad, I could see you were sad, don't lie to me and tell me you weren't."

Sherlock continued to blink and stare at Molly, the visualization of her words clouding his vision. "I don't know what you want to hear from me."

"I am sorry, it was a stupid question." Molly took the cup with her as she walked.

"In the realm of stupid questions I've heard from you," Sherlock said quickly, "that wasn't one of them." Sherlock reflected on it and offered her a smile. "I suspect it is a hard thing to move past but I occupy myself with cases, I don't even notice at times."

"Liar."

Sherlock was slightly baffled. He thought he did a fairly good job in discussing it and here Molly is calling him a liar. "Excuse me?"

"I called you a liar because you're a liar. You do this thing, I can tell when you're sad. There's a difference between your concentrating stare and your sad stare, I see it all the time. ."

"Do you really stare at me when I work here?" he asked, honestly wondering at his decision to continue to use the lab.

"So, when you say you're not sad when you are, I am going to call you a liar."

Sherlock knew he did not want to discuss this. When John would attempt to discuss it, he would plainly walk away from the doctor. Irene would chime about their relationship through text message and Sherlock would ignore her, too, and go to simpler discussions like a case. Sherlock was making a conscious effort to change the subject. Instead, he found himself sitting there silent for several moments.

Giving up, he said in a deliberate manner, "she's not dead, but me and her will be will never resemble anything worth discussing. The man in your life has spent quite a bit of money on jewelry that you are uncomfortable in but still wear. Either let him in and get comfortable with it or move to another sexual partner." Sherlock turned away from Molly and looked back at the screen. "That doesn't mean I wish I had something otherwise with her, but it won't happen no matter how hard I wish on silly stars or coins in ponds. This man, whoever he is, is here right now. What are you waiting for?"

Molly opened her mouth but promptly closed it.

"Don't wait for me. I'm not worth it." Sherlock closed the window on the computer and thanked her for her computer and the coffee. "Next one's on me."

Sherlock pulled his coat from the hanger and walked away, letting his scarf drop in his haste. Molly watched it fall to the floor, shocked at their exchange and Sherlock's movements.

Later in the evening, as Sherlock replaced a string on his violin, he realized his mistake in leaving the scarf behind. His annoyance only grew as he peered at John's amused smirk. As he carefully tuned the new strings on the violin, he recalled how John warned him over breakfast that he was abusing his violin. While archaic, Sherlock wanted to launch items at John in an attempt to inflict pain.

With new strings installed on his violin, Sherlock looked at the fragments of worn string set aside. Inspecting it, he came to the notion that he would strangle Molly should he ever need to extinguish her, possibly with his scarf.

_No_. Not the scarf, he adored that scarf and would have to give it up forever. His distinct blue scarf would leave fibers that lead a trail to the detective. He could always use his hands. Molly dated psychopaths and hoped for a chance at someone as unsavory as Sherlock, no one would doubt the male hand marks around her neck. It wouldn't be hard to get that close to her, possibly even squeeze the life from her in her own bedroom. No one would believe Sherlock, of all people, was in her quarters. No one would doubt she picked some new unsavory individual from some dating website.

Sherlock looked at his phone. A simple text from Molly letting him know his scarf was at the lab whenever he wanted it back displayed across the screen. Sherlock swiped the message away and wrote a quick text to a new recipient.

_Dinner? SH_


End file.
